


Spanktober!

by HipHopAnonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Caning, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Discipline, Inappropriate use of consecrated ground and holy water, Mention of figging, Other, Over the Knee, Paddling, Public Humiliation, Slap to Face, Spanking, Spanktober, Strapping, Therapy Spanking, They both get spanked ok, hole spanking, spanking machine, wooden spoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-11-16 15:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipHopAnonymous/pseuds/HipHopAnonymous
Summary: Good Omens SPANKtober!It's not Inktober ... it's not even Kinktober ... it's something similar, but tailor-made for those of us who like to read about a good spanking!





	1. The One with Nanny and the Wooden Spoon

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't get excited and think there will be something posted every day, because there is just NO chance of that happening!
> 
> I will try to write up a few more scenarios that have been mulling about in my head throughout this month, though!

Aziraphale was being _insufferable._ No. Crowley - or rather Nanny Ashtoreth - corrected herself, the _Gardener_, Brother Francis, was being _insufferable._

Nanny was doing her very best to bake a cake for Warlock’s birthday, but apparently everything she was doing was _wrong._

“Don’t you think that’s a bit too much sugar?”

“Why don’t you try using a little almond extract?”

“Don’t you think you ought to whisk those eggs more thoroughly?”

“Are you certain the temperature is correct on this oven? Have you tested it lately?”

“Oh, surely that’s not nearly enough food coloring, dear.”

Finally, Nanny flung a metal bowl into the sink that hit with a deafening crash and whirled around to snarl at Brother Francis.

“Out! Get out of the kitchen this instant!”

Brother Francis actually sighed and rolled his eyes, making no move to leave. “I’m only trying to help, love. You don’t know the first thing about baking.”

Her nostrils flared. “And you don’t know the first thing about gardening,” she hissed, voice low in consideration of any prying ears. It was rather late at night, but one could never be too cautious. “But _you_ refuse to take _my_ advice on that front.”

“Oh, but that’s different,” Francis insisted. “A birthday cake is _important_.”

“It’ll be fine,” she snapped, turning to glare at a bowl of pitiful looking batter. _It had better be._ It may take a few demonic tricks, but there would certainly be a _marvelous_ birthday cake for Warlock by morning. If only Azira- _Brother Francis_ would leave well enough alone.

Apparently he just didn’t have the self-restraint, though. “Oh, really, dear, just let me - ”

Nanny smacked the back of his hand sharply as he reached for the bowl.

“Don’t you dare! Why don’t you mind your own business, _Brother Francis_?”

He gave the back of his hand a rueful rub and had the audacity to pout.

“Really!” he said. “You’re so needlessly stubborn!”

He pushed past her to pick up a large wooden stirring spoon on the counter, determined to have at the baking disaster. Nanny hand shot out, quick as a serpent’s strike, and caught Francis’s wrist just as his hand was poised above the mixing bowl with the spoon. She squeezed.

“Drop it,” she said through gritted teeth.

“What? No! You’re being ridiculous! Just let me - ”

“Drop. It. Or else I’m going to _use it_,” she raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

He sucked in a small, nearly imperceptible breath and his eyes blazed, supernaturally aquamarine fire, for only a moment. He quickly reverted into his former guise of long-suffering know-it-all, pursed his lips and scoffed at her.

“Oh, don’t be silly - ack!”

With far more strength than it seemed she should possess, Nanny twisted his arm behind his back, pushing him up against the counter. She wrenched his arm up until he yelped and relented, his grip on the wooden handle loosening.

She yanked the spoon out of his hand, and adeptly used it to deliver two very sharp spanks to his bottom.

“Is this what you’re after?” she murmured against his ear.

He was already breathing roughly through his nose.

“Mmmm, yessss, I ssseeee,” she said, the words somehow coming out half a hiss, half a purr, and all authority, discipline, and sex. “Such a naughty boy, pestering Nanny after he was told to run along.”

She spanked him with the spoon again. And then again. Not stopping there, she delivered a volley of smacks that landed with dull thuds against his snug trousers, stretched enticingly across his two rounded, wobbling buttocks.

Nanny paused to reach her free hand around his hip to his belt buckle, deftly working it open. Now Francis gasped and began to struggle in her grip.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Nanny chided him, swatting the spoon against the back of his left thigh. “Incorrigible little brats who don’t obey Nanny get spanked, Brother. You know that. You also know how naughty boys are spanked in this house, don’t you?”

He only whimpered in response, but he stopped struggling. It had only been a token protest anyway. Nanny smirked and began to drag the flat back of the spoon in circles over his backside.

“Come on now, Brother Francis. Tell Nanny how naughty boys are spanked. Are they spanked over their trousers?”

“N-no,” he choked out.

She raised the spoon and gave him two sharp smacks to his right buttock.

“No, m-ma’am!” he amended.

“Better,” she said, resuming the gentle rubbing. “So tell me, then. How are bad boys spanked?”

“On their …” she watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. He whispered it out all in a rush, “Ontheirbarebottoms.”

She raised the spoon and his eyes widened, quickly adding a panicked “Ma’am!” almost too late.

“That’s right,” she said.

She set the spoon down on the counter, no longer worried about Brother Francis snatching it at this point. She made quick work of baring the good Brother’s backside, unfastening his trousers, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of his modest underwear, and tugging it all down to his knees.

“I always paddle disobedient boys on their bare bottoms, Brother Francis.”

She appreciated the pink flush creeping up his neck almost as well as the pink ovals from the spoon now visible on his naked, fleshy buttocks.

Nanny took up the spoon again and touched the business end to his exposed backside, making him flinch. She resumed her previous circular rubbing, now against bare skin, moving from one corpulent globe to the other, letting him feel the weight of the wood and the promise of its sting.

With quick flicks of her wrist, Nanny raised and smacked the spoon down with a mighty _crack! crack! crack!_ over and over, leaving behind more pink ovals that quickly darkened into scarlet as she continued spanking.

Francis bit his lip and struggled to stay quiet as the spoon ignited a fire in his tail, stomping his foot now and then and wiggling his hips. His aborted, strangled sounds raised in pitch when Nanny began to raise her arm higher, putting more strength into the paddling.

“Too. Loud.” he grunted out in warning.

“Oh, dear. Are you worried that our employers will hear the gardener getting his bottom soundly spanked?” She chuckled and gave him two particularly harsh smacks, the gunshot cracks reverberating loudly. “Don’t worry. They won’t hear a thing.”

With that demonic assurance in mind, Brother Francis allowed himself to shriek, howl, and beg his way through Nanny Ashtoreth’s special brand of discipline - that being a severe paddling with a large wooden spoon on his naked behind!

No amount of tantruming, however, could dissuade the nanny from delivering a thoroughly sound spanking to a defiant little gardener. His chubby rump wiggled and jiggled, bouncing with every smack. Deaf to his cries and pleas, Ashtoreth painted his naughty bottom scarlet with that wicked spoon, heating his poor nates to scorching. Nevermind the fancy, high-end kitchen stove, surely they could have fried an egg or two right up on his sizzling buttocks!

Nanny finally stepped back to admire her work, crossing her arms over her chest, spoon still menacingly in hand. Brother Francis leaned against the counter, panting and sweaty. His trousers and pants had slipped down to his ankles during all his foot stomping and wriggling. She grinned at the state of his bottom. Both plump orbs were shiny, glowing, and downright strawberry red.

_Strawberries! Yes! She should include some of those on the birthday cake!_

Pleased with the idea, she continued to assess the sight before her. She hadn't neglected the suburbs of Brother Francis’s backside, and the backs of his upper thighs were a deep mottled pink, as well. The lovely shades of red and pink contrasted nicely with Francis’s soft, alabaster skin - and visions of a fluffy, ornate and delectable cake of strawberries and cream was taking form in Ashtoreth’s mind. She’d just miracle up the damn thing. It would be perfect. Inspiration often struck in the most surprising of places.

She set the spoon on the counter again and placed a hand against Francis’s left buttock. The flesh was quite warm, much to her pleasure. She gently scratched her long, shellacked nails over the sensitive skin.

“Feeling it now, aren’t you? Have you had enough, Brother Francis? Or are you in need of more discipline?”

Not waiting for an answer, she spread him open, running the point of one nail down the crease of his sweat-damp arse and then pressing the pad of her finger against his anus. He jerked forward, but she relentlessly pushed the length of her nail inside him.

“The Dowlings keep a very well-stocked kitchen, you know. I bet I could find some ginger root. I could make you peel it for me. You know about figging, don't you, little bookworm? I could give you a kissss of fire right here while I finish paddling your bottom.”

She pushed her finger in deeper and gave it a teasing little wriggle.

Brother Francis huffed and turned his ruddy face towards her. “As if you have _any_ idea what ginger root actually looks like. We both know you’re a _terrible_ cook.”

Nanny Ashtoreth had to bite her tongue to hold in a very unladylike guffaw that nearly erupted at Brother Francis’s words. _Oh, what a cheeky thing!_ She put on a stern face and picked up the spoon yet again, clicking her tongue and shaking her head at the naughty gardener who had clearly not yet learnt his lesson.

“You’re incorrigible,” she admonished. “You clearly need a stronger hand, my dear.”

And so a thorough spanking became a thorough blistering, and Brother Francis absolutely howled as the hellfire of Nanny Ashtoreth's demonic wrath rained down on his naughty bottom.

* * *

The cake was _gorgeous_. Three tiers of fluffy angel food cake covered in a thick layer of pure white buttercream frosting with decorative flourishes here and there. Bright red strawberries were liberally placed around every edge and swept into ornate patterns on each tier.

“This is amazing, Miss Ashtoreth!” Mrs. Dowling gushed. “You really have a remarkable talent!”

Ashtoreth gave Brother Francis, who was shifting uncomfortably in his seat an “I told you so” smirk.

“Why thank you, dear! It was nothing, really. I just had a little bit of _Heavenly_ inspiration.”

Francis grimaced and squirmed, and Nanny knew he must really be suffering sitting on the cushionless chair she’d purposefully ushered him into. What with all those welts, bruises, and blisters covering his naughty angel arse.

“But I’m really still a beginner when it comes to cooking,” Ashtoreth continued, “I have plenty to learn!”

And the very first thing on her list was to figure out, for future reference, exactly what ginger root looked like.


	2. The One with the Angst After the Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale just doesn't know how to move on with his guilt over the flood. In a strange and unexpected twist of irony, Crawly helps.

Aziraphale stood at the edge of the water. It stretched out farther than he could see, deceptively still and peaceful. Above, a translucent, shimmering array of colors - red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple - stretched across the sky. The placidity of it all felt almost callous in the face of the carnage that Aziraphale knew lay deep beneath the surface of the glittering water. His stomach was sour.

He wanted to cry. Badly. But the tears wouldn’t come - he _couldn’t_ make them come.

_You can’t kill kids._

An icy numbness shot through him. He was finding it difficult to breathe. He had to turn and look away from the water and the rainbow, as beautiful as it all was. It was too much. It was all just too much.

He hadn’t _known_ when he first came down to “bless a ship.” No one had bothered to tell him the details. Of course not. He had his orders and was expected to skip off and obey without question. But he hadn’t _known._ As if this would somehow absolve his complicity in this - this _extermination._ Even so, he kept repeating it in his mind like a virtue-seeking mantra. He hadn't _known._

_That’s more the kind of thing you’d expect my lot to do._

When Crawly had popped up out of nowhere while they were boarding the animals, Aziraphale had only just discovered what was _actually_ planned and was still reeling from it, pretending to observe the ongoings while his heart raced and he wrung his hands nervously.

Aziraphale hadn’t felt surprised, or annoyed, or even pleased to see the demon. No, he had felt _guilty_, instantly wishing that Crawly wasn’t there to witness Aziraphale’s part in it. He’d rambled on awkwardly, spouting the party lines that were expected of him, but Crawly had pushed back, twisting the knife Aziraphale had already lodged in his own heart about the matter.

_But they’re_ drowning_ everybody else?_

Aziraphale now fell to his knees, sinking into the soft mud, chest heaving, and buried his face in his hands. The water lapped at him, cold wetness soaking into his ivory robe. He let out a dry, desperate sob, but still, the tears just wouldn’t come. 

“I guess you _can_ kill kids.”

The quip was dry, humorless, and Aziraphale whirled around on Crawly, eyes blazing with fury.

“Don’t! Don’t start!” he snapped. 

Crawly looked so surprised and sheepish at the harsh tone, that Aziraphale couldn’t help but soften, face crumpling as he wiped a hand over it, sighing. “Just … don’t. Please.”

Crawly nodded slowly then came and sat next to Aziraphale, leaving an appropriate distance between them.

“I’m sorry, Angel,” he said finally. “I didn’t mean _you _you. I know this wasn’t your fault, Aziraphale.”

“But it was, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale said, voice barely above a whisper.

“What? Of course not, what d’you - ”

“We all have choices,” Aziraphale said over him. The words were dangerous, but Aziraphale couldn’t stop them from coming. “We all choose sides. I could always decide to d-disobey, couldn’t I? I could argue. I could question. I could end up like _you_.” He furrowed his brow, already on the road to rationalization. “But what difference would that even make? _You_ were here, and you didn’t do anything to help either, did you?” 

“Hey, what a minute,” Crawly said, pushing himself up and crossing his arms defensively. “This wasn’t either of our faults. I don’t see why - ”

“Then whose fault was it!?” Aziraphale leapt up, directing his pent up fury at the demon. 

Crawly’s eyes trailed skyward and Aziraphale blanched at the implication.

“No!” he shook his head vehemently, terror creeping up his spine at such a blasphemous, dangerous thought toward the Almighty. “No, no, no! Don’t even think that! She was justified! She must have been!” Was he convincing himself or Crawly now? “It _was_ your fault. Your lot’s.”

Aziraphale could hear himself getting shrill, manic, but he couldn’t stop the angry, snarling way he hurled the unfair words at Crawly. He didn’t even understand why he was suddenly so angry with the demon. Maybe it was Crawly’s apparent lack of guilt, lack of anguish over what had just happened. How could he stand there so calmly at the edge of a soggy boneyard? 

“Yes, your lot,” Aziraphale said with contempt. “You with all your temptations and evil wiles and … and devilish whispers and suggestions. Yes, I know what your lot is about. You _made_ the humans anger the Almighty. Your temptations condemned them all. You ought to be ashamed! You should have - ”

Crawly slapped him across the face.

“Calm down, Angel, you sound hysterical.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth gaped and he brought a hand to his stinging cheek. It _hurt._ The pain made his eyes water, little pinpricks gathering in the corners. _Yes, finally_

“Hit me again,” he said, a little breathless.

“What?”

“Hit me again,” Aziraphale said, louder this time.

The tingling, stinging pain in his cheek was a lifeline. It shocked him out of his numbness. It made him _feel_.

“What?” Crawly repeated and blinked those big, yellow eyes at him slowly. “Have you lost it? I shouldn’t have even hit you in the first place. I’m sorry, Angel. Please just forget it.” 

Crawly was looking at him with uncertainty, appearing far more worried over striking him than he had ever looked about the flood or anything else that had ever happened to humanity for that matter.

“I need you to hit me, Crawly, please. Please?”

Aziraphale was begging. It was pathetic. He _knew_ it was pathetic, but there was no one else to ask. Heaven only punished defiance against Heaven. They wouldn’t see any need for Aziraphale’s sins to be absolved, since in their eyes, he didn’t have any. But inside, he ached for absolution, for repentance. Where else to seek it but from the demon before him who surely, surely understood such things and shouldn’t have any reason to balk at roughing up an angel. They were supposed to be enemies, for goodness sake.

“Please, Crawly,” Aziraphale asked again. “You were right. It wasn't your fault. I'm sorry I said it. I didn't mean it. Just … just hit me again. Beat me. I promise I won’t smite you or even fight back.” He forced out a fake little laugh. “I’m telling you, this is your chance. Take out your frustrations and anger at Heaven on me. Please? 

Crawly just gaped at him. “I’m not going to hit you. I don’t want to.” 

Aziraphale put his face in his hands and groaned. “Come on, please!” his voice broke, even though the tears still relented. “I-I can’t go on like this. I don’t know how I can go on. I don’t know what to do. I don’t - ”

“All right,” Crawly interrupted and Aziraphale looked up at him, hopeful. Crawly’s face was full of pity, and it stung a bit, but Aziraphale was desperate. “All right. I think I understand. Come on.”

The demon turned to walk up the hill, and Aziraphale numbly followed. They stopped at a large boulder and Crawly seemed to be working up some sort of nerve, or else making some decision.

Now that he’d seemingly gotten what he wanted, Aziraphale was feeling a bit trembly and nervous. He realized he didn’t know Crawly all that well, though he somehow always felt safe and familiar with him. Surely the demon wouldn’t beat him so badly he’d be discorporated, would he? That might be hard to explain to Gabriel.

“Crawly, I - ”

“Hush!” Crawly hissed. “Just hush. Before I change my mind.” 

Crawly plopped down on the boulder. He grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist, who gave a little squawk as he was pulled face-down across the demon’s lap. 

“I’ve seen this done before,” Crawly explained, adjusting the angel’s position. “I think it’s just what you need.” 

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but then Crawly struck him, with an open handed slap, right on his _bottom_. Only a second passed before another smack landed. And then another. All delivered only to his buttocks. 

Like the slap to his face, these slaps _hurt_ and Aziraphale began to gasp out little “Oohs” and “Ahhs.” He twisted his hips, instinctively trying to escape Crawly’s punishing hand.

“This is a spanking, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure why, but his face flushed at that.

“Yes, ah!” he winced at a particularly sharp slap to his backside. “Well, it _does_ hurt, but I don’t know how effective - Oh! Crawly!”

Crawly had stopped, but only to lift the hem of Aziraphale’s robe up over his back, baring his naked bottom to the world. Crawly then spanked it sharply.

“Yeowch!” now _that_ really stung.

“It’s better this way. Now I can see what I’m doing,” Crawly said, his voice a little rough.

Though Aziraphale settled over his lap and allowed it (he’d _asked_ Crawly to hit him, after all), there was something lascivious in the demon’s tone that Aziraphale filed away to think about on another day.

For now, Aziraphale focused on the hurt building in his bottom, the pain that magnified as the relentless smacks of Crawly’s hand continued on and on. Every crack against his skin was followed by a bloom of sting as his tail grew hotter, and hotter, until he was sure it was ablaze. He was panting and kicking, seemingly unable to control the reactions of his body as his bottom was scorched.

As the intensity of the sting built to overwhelming levels, his mind began to wander. He thought about Eden. The humans that had been banished. He’d given away his sword. He shouldn’t have done that, but he didn’t regret it, not really. He regretted their banishment. He’d blamed Crawly, and then felt guilty about that. _Aziraphale_ hadn’t been guarding the tree. He’d been shirking. _I'm sorry._

In the background of these thoughts, Crawly just kept on spanking, and Aziraphale thrashed, tossing his head from side to side and kicking his legs, simultaneously trying to shake the painful memories from his head and to kick away the sting in his bottom.

He thought about the flood. The way it had begun with slow, fat drops of rain, and then strengthened into a torrential downpour. Humans running, slipping in the puddles at first, and then futilely trying to swim, attempting to latch onto floating debris that couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ hold them. Lightning had crashed relentlessly and brutal winds had howled. It had been terrifying. _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. _

Aziraphale didn’t know what it felt like to drown, but he couldn’t stop imagining it. He could almost feel the water on his face, the inability to breathe, choking …

His face _was_ wet. _Tears._ He was crying. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and his nose was stuffed and running with snot. He was _sobbing_, shaking, gasping loudly and absolutely wailing. It took him some time to even realize that Crawly was no longer spanking him. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Aziraphale was babbling. He hadn't realized he'd been speaking out loud either.

Crawly was rubbing his back and shushing him softly, “It’s all right, Angel. It’s all right. I’ve got you. It wasn't your fault.”

Aziraphale sobbed even harder. His bottom was throbbing from the spanking. A delightful agony that he could feel and put a name to, but it paled in comparison to the ache in his chest, as though his heart had burst and was bleeding through his body.

He was a bad angel. His mind flipped through every mutinous thought or dangerous question he’d swallowed down in the face of Heaven. He’d behaved, he’d obeyed, he’d done everything asked of him, and yet no one had realized how much it had hurt him, twisting him up in knots. How desperately he’d yearned for punishment. How blissfully, painfully cathartic receiving it was. He had been untangled, at least for now, and he sagged, loose and relaxed, if a bit frayed, bent over Crawly’s lap.

Aziraphale slid down onto his knees, turned and wrapped his arms around the demon’s skinny waist, and buried his face in the dark fabric covering his stomach. He cried and cried and _cried_ and Crawly just let him, stroking his hair gently until Aziraphale’s tears finally stopped coming and he was hiccuping softly.

Aziraphale’s bottom really did hurt, but it was a _good_ hurt. He’d never known of such a thing before, but he did feel better somehow. Aziraphale knew the soreness would last for days if he didn’t heal it. And he wouldn’t, of course. He’d wear the marks as penance, as a reminder, and as a guiding beacon of his absolution. Redemption had finally and shockingly coming at the hand - and over the lap of - a demon, of all creatures.

Heaven would never approve. But, giving another glance at the magnificent rainbow, he found he didn’t care quite as much as he would have before, and for once, he didn’t even feel guilty about it.


	3. The One Where an Angel Takes a Demon to Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is absolutely furious about Crowley's plan to rob holy water from a church. He's also terribly worried about giving the holy water to Crowley. So Aziraphale asks Crowley to take him to that church where he inflicts a very memorable bit of discipline on the demon in order to teach him to appreciate the risks and dangers of holy water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally another story in which Aziraphale spanks Crowley! The angst just crept in. It was completely out of my control!
> 
> This story emerged from the absurdly feral and wonderful conversations in the Good Omens spanking discord. So, uh, if you have a healthy interest in spanking and would like to partake in this kind of nonsense, hit me up on tumblr (agreatbestfriend) or twitter (hiphopanomou9) for a link ;) Everyone there is very friendly and the best <3

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go,” Crowley pushed again, holding the thermos of holy water gingerly in his hands. He looked imploringly at Aziraphale, unable to bear letting him leave just yet.

Aziraphale made a terribly sad face, and Crowley was sure he was about to refuse again. But then Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, face contorting and morphing from some sort of anguish into frustration.

“Actually …” the angel was beginning to look downright angry. “Why don’t you take me to that church.”

“That church?” Crowley blinked. “What church?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and huffed air through his nose. He flapped his hands in the air as though Crowley were being particularly dense. “You know! The _church_! The one from your caper! Drive me there, please.”

Crowley just gaped at him for a moment. He already had the holy water in hand, so he couldn’t understand why Aziraphale would want to bother going there. “Oh. The church. But … why?”

“Why does it matter?” Aziraphale snapped. “You said anywhere I want to go, and that’s where I want to go. If it’s a problem, then just forget it!”

He moved like he was going to get out of the car, but Crowley grabbed his arm.

“No! No, that’s fine. I’ll take you to the church. Let’s go.”

He had no idea why Aziraphale wanted to go to some random church, especially when he was clearly so annoyed about the whole thing. But Crowley had never been able to deny the angel anything he asked, so he shifted gears and drove them to the church per request.

It was an enormous and ornate Catholic church; stained glass, arches, and spires galore. Seeing it up close, Crowley felt a little embarrassed about how ridiculous the whole idea had been. He parked the Bentley on the empty street out front and waited for Aziraphale to say something.

“Come on, then,” Aziraphale said, voice clipped.

He got out of the car and started walking towards the church doors. Crowley scrambled to follow after him. Aziraphale was walking with brisk determination, and Crowley had to jog to catch up.

“Um, what are you … are we going to, um ... ” his eyes darted nervously to the entrance that they were fast approaching. “Er, consecrated ground, Angel …”

“I’m well aware, dear boy.”

Crowley blanched. What was Aziraphale playing at?

They climbed the entry stairs and with a wave of his hand Aziraphale had the high-arched, solid oak doors unlocked. He pushed them open and went inside.

Crowley dithered on the top step, already feeling a tingle in his toes from being so near the holy ground. He recalled well the burn from the church floor some twenty years prior when he’d saved Aziraphale from the Nazis. That had been a necessary sacrifice, of course, but he wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.

Aziraphale turned and cleared his throat, looking expectantly at Crowley.

Crowley bit his lip, still hesitating. “The … the ground. It’s consecrated … ” He hated how whiny he sounded.

“Yes, like I said, I know that. Come on.”

Aziraphale turned, continuing on towards the sanctuary. Crowley groaned and followed, wincing at the celestial heat that seemed to shoot straight through the soles of his shoes, burning the bottoms of his feet.

Crowley tried not to hop about too much as the church floor scalded him. Aziraphale was acting quite tetchy and so Crowley tried to keep the complaints to a minimum. Though he couldn’t help grimacing, squirming, and shifting his weight more quickly than was natural as he trailed Aziraphale past seemingly endless pews.

The inside of the church was just as, if not more, ornate than the outside. A large pulpit stretched across the stage of the sanctuary and a six foot cross stood bolted to the ground behind it. Aziraphale made his way to a large, cylindrical holy water font to the right side of the sanctuary. There were several cherubic angels carved into the stone. Aziraphale stopped in front of it and stood there, staring at the still water, deep in contemplation. He might have been praying.

Crowley stayed well back, the fire in his feet growing more and more unbearable. He was soon unable to keep from hopping from foot to foot, gritting his teeth at the discomfort. Surely Aziraphale had some important reason for bringing him here. He just had to be patient. Aziraphale had finally relented in giving him the holy water he so desperately needed. The least he could do is go along with … whatever this was. To be fair, he always went along with whatever Aziraphale wanted anyway. The heat on his feet, however, was growing to intolerable levels.

“Angel!” he said finally, breaking. “Could we, uh, get on with it?”

Aziraphale turned and grinned at Crowley. It wasn’t his typical angelic smile, all sweetness and adoration, though. No, this grin was full of teeth and downright _predatory._

“You might not be so eager if you knew what I have planned,” he said.

Crowley paled.

Aziraphale continued. “We’re here to shock some sense into you. I need to be sure you don’t get any _ideas_ about that holy water I’ve given you.” He gave Crowley a very severe look. “And I never again want to hear even a whisper about you being involved in any life-threatening capers.”

“All right, Angel,” Crowley said impatiently, the pace of his hopping increasing in speed. “I get it, okay? The floor burns and holy water would burn even worse. I understand!”

“Oh, you will,” Aziraphale promised. “I’m going to make sure that you understand _thoroughly._”

The angel brought his hands together as if in prayer and they glowed with a bright, ethereal light. He then pulled them slowly apart, a thin stick appearing to grow in length from nothing between them until he was holding a rather menacing looking rattan cane, hooked on one end.

Crowley’s eyes widened. Aziraphale tested the weight and flexibility of the instrument, bending it and swishing it through the air. Appearing to be satisfied, he turned and placed it tip down right into the holy water. The font was deep enough that only the hooked handle stuck up from the top.

“I’m just going to let this soak up some of that holy water you wanted so badly,” Aziraphale explained. “There isn’t time to let it sit overnight since I’ll be using it soon, but a little should go a long way in getting my point across, I think.”

Crowley had some difficulty swallowing the lump in his throat. He was more or less familiar with public school discipline tactics. His face flushed at the idea of Aziraphale ‘using it soon’ in regards to the wicked looking cane, absorbing holy water as they spoke.

“Angel,” he began, voice hoarse. “Is it … I mean … is it …” _safe?_ He knew Aziraphale would never truly harm him, but his mind was already reeling at how much the angel had upped the ante so far this evening.

“This is only _human_ holy water, you see,” Aziraphale said, understanding Crowley’s concern. He gripped the cane’s handle with two fingers and idly stirred the water.

“Is there a difference?” Crowley was a bit shocked at the implication. He’d assumed all holy water was the same.

“Oh yes, of course. This is legitimate holy water, of course. Blessed by a priest, no less, but a priest is still a human. Humans having their own - often incorrect - ideas on religious theory and therefore have their own limitations. What I’ve given you in the thermos is far, far stronger. Even a drop would be extremely dangerous, and possibly even deadly for you.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, swallowing again. “I’ll be careful with it, Angel, I promise.”

“I’m going to see to it that you are,” Aziraphale said, that little spark of menace back in his voice. “So, while we wait for the cane to soak, why don’t we give your feet a little break.”

Aziraphale plopped down on the front pew, settling into the seat with his signature wiggle. He patted his lap and gave Crowley an expectant look.

Aziraphale’s implication might have been unclear had Crowley not just watched him manifest an implement meant for naughty schoolboys. With discipline already on the table, Crowley could surmise exactly how Aziraphale wanted him on his lap.

Crowley couldn't help but hesitate, raising his eyebrows, “Really, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale didn’t waver. “Yes, really. Unless you’d rather I take that thermos back and wash my hands of you and your nonsense?”

Crowley suspected it was a bluff, but he wouldn’t dream of risking it. “No! No, it’s … fine.”

Aziraphale clearly needed this; needed to take back a bit of control in a situation that had very nearly spiraled out of it. And Crowley wasn’t about to balk at giving the angel whatever he needed, per usual.

“Good. Come here, then,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley hopped his way over on burning feet and moved to stretch face down across the angel’s lap, but Aziraphale stopped him.

“Wait -”

Aziraphale unbuttoned Crowley’s jacket, urging him to shrug out of it and then laid it neatly beside him. A part of Crowley had hoped the evening would end with Aziraphale taking off his clothes, but Crowley would have never in another six thousand years imagined it would be quite like this. The angel then made quick work of unfastening Crowley’s trousers and working them down over the demon’s slender hips. Crowley blushed, suddenly very aware that he had been going without underwear lately, unable to find anything that fit comfortably under his fitted trousers.

If Aziraphale noticed or cared that Crowley wasn’t wearing underwear, he didn’t mention it. Perhaps the angel had intended spank him on the bare bottom anyway.

And Crowley had to admit at this point that _that_ was what was about to happen. Once Crowley’s trousers were down to his knees, Aziraphale guided him across his lap, and there was absolutely no denying that Crowley was about to let the angel spank him. And then whip him with that holy water soaked cane.

Crowley was beginning to feel a bit light-headed. But Aziraphale’s thighs were thick, soft, and he was able to wriggle into a fairly comfortable position over them, sighing in relief now that his burning feet were up off the consecrated ground. That relief was to be short-lived, and Crowley flinched when Aziraphale lay his plump hand on his naked buttocks.

“I’m absolutely furious, you know,” Aziraphale said, voice low and tinged with rage. “When I heard about what you were planning, I could scarcely believe it. I didn’t take you for such a fool, Crowley. I still don’t think I ought to have given that thermos to you, but apparently you can’t be trusted not to do something risky and stupid without me intervening. This is the last time I’m ever going to give into your little attention seeking tantrums, though, do you understand?”

“Yes,” Crowley whispered, feeling surprisingly stung at the angel’s chiding tone.

“Good. To be sure, I’m going to spank some sense into you.”

And then he did. It began with some hesitancy on Aziraphale’s part, the smacks barely stinging, but the angel quickly gained confidence, lighting into Crowley with all the pent up rage, frustration, and anguish that had been brewing for centuries. Suffice it to say that Crowley’s mind was very much taken off his sore feet as he became utterly focused on the rapidly increasing soreness of his bottom. Soon, he was too busy kicking those scorched little feet in protest at the fire Aziraphale was spanking into his buttocks to pay them much mind at all.

“No more life-threatening ideas, Crowley. Not ever! We can do this as often as you need to help you remember that it’s _just not worth it!_” Aziraphale punctuated choice words of the lecture with extra sharp smacks. “Do (spank) you (spank) understand (spank)?”

“Yes, yessssss!”

Crowley honestly wasn’t really thinking about the dangers of holy water or how silly his heist had been. He wasn’t much thinking about anything other than his stinging bottom and whether Aziraphale’s surprisingly hard hand would ever stop smacking it. He’d have promised anything and was only barely listening to the lecture at this point.

He tried to slither away, lithe body squirming forward in an attempt to escape the relentless smacks, but Aziraphale held him tightly down, stronger than he looked and far stronger than Crowley ever expected. There was no avoiding Aziraphale’s punishing hand and the burning fire it delivered to Crowley’s naked backside.

The angel spanked, and spanked, and _spanked._ Aziraphale was panting from the effort by the time he finally stopped, and Crowley was very nearly in tears, lip wobbling as his bottom throbbed red and hot.

“All right, then,” Aziraphale said. “Up you get.”

Crowley obeyed, whimpering pitifully at having to stand on the holy ground again, now being subjected not only to a burning bottom but burning feet as well.

“Turn around and face the holy water font, please. That’s right.”

Crowley saw the hooked end of the cane sticking out of the top and grimaced. He’d almost forgotten about that. _Shit._

“Now,” Aziraphale said, dropping yet another unexpected bombshell, “I want you to sit your red bum down on the ground there and think about the things I’ve been telling you.”

Crowley whirled around, “What? Ssssit!? Angel, _please_ …”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Aziraphale said, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows.

Crowley knew he could leave. He could wrench up his trousers in a huff, tell Aziraphale exactly where he could stick that thermos of holy water, and storm out to lick his wounds (and heal his smarting backside.) He could do it. But he wasn’t going to.

Instead, he had a little tantrum, stomping his scorched feet, throwing his head back, and groaning in frustration, rubbing his cherry red posterior and looking every bit like a naughty demon in the middle of being justly punished.

Aziraphale just stood there, impassively watching him until finally Crowley turned his back on the angel and plopped his bare bottom down on the floor with an angry huff …

… for about half a second before he yelped and jumped back up, both hands flying to his scalded buttocks.

“It burnssss!” he hissed.

“Obviously,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley _almost_ snarked the word back at him in a snit, but thought better of it and snapped his mouth shut instead. He knew the angel still intended to take that blasted holy water cane to his bottom, after all. Best not to push his luck.

Seeing that Aziraphale had no intention of relenting, Crowley turned around again and this time, very slowly sat his naked bottom down on the consecrated ground of the church, hissing as the tender skin felt like it was ignited into flames.

“Such a fuss,” Aziraphale chided.

Crowley looked over his shoulder and pouted at the angel. Aziraphale held out his hand and miracled up a stopwatch.

“I’m going to set this for ten minutes. If you want to sit there for the full ten minutes and think about keeping yourself safe and about the dangers of holy water, then I’ll be giving you six of the best with that cane after.”

Crowley pouted even more intensely.

“However, if you can’t take it and choose to get up early, before ten minutes is up, then you’ll be getting twelve.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Yes it is. I’ve laid out very clear rules and am giving you a choice.”

“Some choice,” Crowley grumbled.

“Enough with the attitude. I can always add extra just for that.”

Crowley gaped at him, realized the angel wasn’t in the mood for leniency, and then turned and faced the font again. _Fine._

“I’m starting the timer now,” Aziraphale announced, and Crowley glared at the stupid stone angels carved into the sides of the font, squirming as the burning heat permeated his buttocks. _Whatever._

Ten minutes was nothing.

Ten minutes was utter _agony_ when a demon’s well-spanked bare bottom was sitting directly on top of consecrated ground. The punishing holy heat against the already sore skin was unbearably hot. It burned. It _scorched._. Crowley was quite certain his bottom was being scalded just as much as if his bum had been plopped right atop a stove burner turned to the highest setting.

He kept uselessly shifting his weight from buttock to buttock, and was unable to decide if it was worse to put his feet down to be burned as well, or to hold them up, resting his full weight on his tormented bottom.

Crowley had _fallen_, and yet he’d never before felt quite so naughty and _punished_. Angels were _mean_. He had always known that and Aziraphale was clearly no exception. Tears were welling up and he didn’t even try to stop them running down his cheeks, though he did wipe a bit angrily at his face, embarrassed to be sniffling and crying through what was clearly the most Hellish (or Heavenly?) version of corner time ever created.

How long had it been? Surely the ten minutes was just about up. He’d been wiggling on his red hot bottom on the burning ground for ages. He looked over his shoulder and saw Aziraphale just standing there watching him intently.

“How much longer, Angel?” Crowley asked, hoping that he looked exceptionally pitiful and contrite.

“Have you had enough already?” Aziraphale said, quirking an eyebrow. “Do you want to take the full twelve strokes?”

Crowley quickly faced the font again. “No!”

So Aziraphale wasn’t going to tell him how much time had passed. Crowley would just have to wait without knowing for sure. _Damn._ He should have been counting the seconds or _something_ but his bottom was being broiled so badly he could barely think about anything, much less counting or all those things Aziraphale wanted him to be thinking about.

Aziraphale was _stupid._ He never listened. Crowley had made it painfully clear that he didn’t want the holy water for suicide. And if the angel had just given it to him in the first place, he wouldn’t have had to plan the stupid heist. And of course, he would have been careful. He hadn’t even planned to get close to the church holy water. Why else would he have enlisted a group of absurd humans for the job? Crowley just couldn’t understand why Aziraphale was always so difficult or why he was so worked up now. It wasn’t fair. Nothing in his immortal life was _ever_ fair.

Crowley couldn’t stop the tears now and he was writhing in agony on the stupid scalding floor, feeling both furious and melancholy. It was intolerable. The scorching, relentless heat was too reminiscent of the burning sulphur he’d worked so hard to forget, and he could bear it no longer. He leapt up with a relieved shout.

“I’m done,” he said, scowling at Aziraphale and rubbing his inflamed bottom. He regretted his choice almost immediately, the twelve holy water cane strokes looming.

Aziraphale shrugged and the stopwatch disappeared. “Very well.”

The angel walked around Crowley and pulled the cane out of the font, shaking off a few excess drops of holy water. He pointed the stick up at the large wooden cross on the sanctuary stage behind the pulpit.

“I want you to take off your trousers, shoes and socks, and then go up there and face the cross. Reach up and hold onto each arm.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped. “B-bare foot? But, Angel, please …”

“If your bare bottom could handle the floor, then certainly your bare feet can, as well.”

Crowley blushed, and then grumbled and fussed as he very reluctantly removed his shoes and socks. He then slid off his trousers, leaving everything in a messy pile. He whimpered at the intensity of the burn on his bare feet, and he quickly tip-toed up to the cross. He reached up and hooked his fingers over the edges of the arms, hissing and pulling them away when that, too, burned. Knowing Aziraphale wouldn’t care, and probably intended it, he gave his hands a little shake, steeled himself, and then grabbed the hot wood again, surely looking ridiculous with his naked red bottom wiggling as he practically danced from foot to foot.

This was already torture and Aziraphale hadn’t even begun caning him yet. He tensed when he heard the angel walk up behind him.

“I’m going to need you to keep at least a little bit still, dear,” Aziraphale said firmly.

Crowley took a deep, shuddering breath and planted his feet on the scalding ground, legs shaking a bit from the effort.

“I’ll get this over with as quickly as I can,” Aziraphale promised. “I know this is difficult, but all of this is nothing compared to the agony of a death by the holy water I’ve given you. I need you to fully appreciate the potency.”

Without warning, the cane whistled through the air and cracked loudly against Crowley’s buttocks.

He shrieked. Not only did the thin wood slice painfully against his skin, but the holy water it had soaked up was like a little electric shock, greatly intensifying the sting.

“You don’t have to keep count. I’ll do it for you.”

Two more strokes were delivered and Crowley stamped his foot on the hot ground and writhed, nails digging into the burning wood of the cross. _That was three._

Another crack, and then another. They were coming too fast, striping his bottom and his thighs, and Crowley lost count. He was on fire, heart pounding, shaking and struggling to maintain his position through the agonizing onslaught. It was too much.

He sobbed and started to beg, the panicked blubbering shrill and ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Please, p-please, Aziraphale. Oh, Angel, please, please, have mercy! I can’t stand it!”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, delivering another mighty stroke of the cane anyway. “Just remember, Crowley, all of this is far _less_ harsh than the power of what I’ve given you in that thermos, so you’d better be damn careful. Keep it somewhere completely safe and hidden. Do you understand?”

“Yesss! I do! I will! I ssswear! Oh, please, pleassssse no more!”

A final line of scorching, electric fire and then Crowley heard the cane drop to the floor. “All right. That’s t-twelve,” Aziraphale’s voice broke. He was crying, too. “All done. Come here.”

Crowley was about ready to collapse, and so he let Aziraphale scoop him up into a princess carry, any qualms or embarrassment he may normally have had about that beyond reach at the moment. He eagerly wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and sobbed into his chest, his hands, feet, and bottom throbbing in pain. He cried in relief at no longer being forced to make contact with anything consecrated, but the tears also came from some buried, painful misery deep within his chest that he wasn’t yet ready to explain.

Aziraphale carried him out of the church and into the grass, dropping to his knees and then sitting down and rocking the demon, shushing him softly and telling him it was _all right_ despite his own tears.

Finally, after some time, Crowley relaxed, coming back around, wiping his face and feeling more in control of himself. He felt a little silly to be sitting in the angel’s lap, naked from the waist down. This was more than they’d ever touched before. His heart sped and he looked up at Aziraphale’s face. He reached to wipe the tears off the Angel’s cheeks and then leaned in for a kiss, only for Aziraphale to turn his head and clear his throat. Despite everything Crowley had just endured, the rebuke hurt worst of all.

“Er, let me …” Aziraphale trailed off awkwardly and then miracled Crowley’s clothing back on him, and the demon made a little yelp at the suddenness of it. Aziraphale apologized at once. “Sorry, I didn’t think - but you were so exposed, and - ”

“‘S’fine, Angel, really.”

Crowley sniffed and got out of Aziraphale’s lap and they both stood up in uncomfortable silence, brushing off their clothing awkwardly.

Finally, Crowley chuckled and asked, “So, out of curiosity, how many minutes did I last sitting on that nasty floor? Close to ten?”

Aziraphale tucked his chin, looking a bit guilty, “Hmm? Oh that, well, um … I actually didn’t even set the timer. I was going to give you twelve no matter what.”

Crowley’s jaw dropped and then he began to laugh, bending at the waist and erupting into an uncontrollable giggle-fit. It was contagious and Aziraphale chuckled at first and then broke into a sincere belly laugh. They both trailed off, snorting and wiping at their eyes.

“Oh, Angel, you’re such a bastard,” Crowley said, his tone full of affection.

“I’m sorry, really. I was just so angry about that stupid caper,” Aziraphale’s grin wavered and he turned serious again. “I can’t have you risking your life. I still don’t like you having the holy water.”

“I know!” Crowley assured him, needing to stop any further lectures in their tracks. “ I understand, I really do! But I swear I’m not going to use it on myself. I never intended to, Angel, really. You didn’t need to … to go to all that fuss to prove your point.”

Aziraphale looked to the side, appearing admonished and Crowley quickly added, “But I didn’t mind too terribly. I appreciate your concern. I didn’t realize you cared so much.”

“Oh, of course I do,” Aziraphale reached out and grabbed Crowley’s hands, eyes wide and earnest. He pressed Crowley’s hands to his cheek, closing his eyes and looking desperately sad. “Of course I do.”

Crowley couldn’t bear it. He needed to do something. He needed to show Aziraphale how much he really loved him. He needed to show him that he would take a thousand punishments like the one the angel had just dished out to prove it.

He gave Aziraphale’s hands a squeeze and then pulled away before dropping to his knees. He placed one hand on Aziraphale’s thigh and reached the other to the front of his trousers, tentatively brushing his fingers against the button. He looked up hopefully.

Aziraphale’s face was flushed, definitely interested, but also pained. He reached down and gently guided Crowley’s hands away.

“No, my darling, I’m sorry.”

“Please, Angel? I want to thank you for ...” _for caring about me so much, for always looking out for me, for maybe even loving me_, “for the holy water. Please, let me do _something_. Anything you want.”

It wasn’t his best temptation, to be fair, but it was raw and honest.

Crowley could practically hear the moment Aziraphale’s heart broke.

“I can’t," the angel said softly, face falling. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Aziraphale leaned down and kissed his forehead. Crowley closed his eyes, savouring the angel’s lips on his skin. When he opened them, Aziraphale was gone. He’d disappeared just as quickly as he’d appeared in the Bentley earlier that evening.

Crowley walked back to his car on shaky legs, sliding gingerly into the seat with a wince. He wouldn’t dream of healing the hurt, content to leave Aziraphale’s marks on him for as long as they lasted. He couldn’t be sure how long it would be before he saw the angel again, after all. He picked up the tartan thermos and stared at it for several minutes before setting it securely aside and driving home.


	4. The One with the Spanking Machine in Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is disciplined in Hell for failure to complete an assignment. The means of discipline? A public spanking delivered via machine!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is actually a kink meme prompt for Crowley in a spanking machine that I've been thinking about for quite awhile and it seemed to fit into the theme here ;) (of course it did!)

Crowley stood in the courtroom and scowled at the viewing window. It was standing room only, a packed house, demons pushing and shoving each other for a better view. Several fights had already broken out, and nothing had even happened yet. They were all clamoring for a front row seat for Crowley’s shame.

Crowley took a deep breath. It would be _fine._ He’d seen his way around a stripper pole before, and this was more or less the same, wasn’t it? Just give them a little show, let ‘em ogle at your backside, and then it’s over. What difference did it make if a bunch of demons saw him naked from the waist down? He had a nice body. He _ought_ to flaunt it.

Nevermind that this was a _punishment_; that it was supposed to be _embarrassing._ He wouldn’t let it get to him. After all, it was just a _spanking._

Aziraphale got spanked all the time. Heaven had always been a bit quicker than Hell to reach for the rod. Though it seemed that Crowley had pushed Hell beyond all patience and now found himself summoned for a meeting with _the machine_.

It was pretty ridiculous. At least Heaven was willing to get their hands dirty, bending naughty angels over the desk and using traditional implements to impart a lesson. Smiting bottoms the old fashioned way, so to speak. Crowley suspected that the Angels probably found some kind of perverse titillation in the act of discipline - they had to get their jollies in somehow. 

Demons were lazy, though, so they’d rigged (or miracled) up this apparatus that would apparently strap a wayward demon down and deliver a sound spanking to his or her or their naked bottom.

It _was_ silly, he assured himself. Someone on the Dark Council had definitely come up with this on a lark. This was just the sort of thing that Beelzebub would find absolutely _hilarious_.

He gave the audience his best salacious grin, and then turned his back to them. Taking a deep breath, he unfastened his fitted jeans, trying to steady his shaking hands. He did his best little striptease shimmy as he worked the fabric over his hips and down his legs, bending at the waist and giving them a full view of the sweet little cunt he currently sported between his legs. He heard an appreciative roar erupt from behind the glass, accompanied by a spattering of applause and several wolf whistles. It had seemed like a good idea to go tidy and hairless with his effort, but he quickly realized that this choice was going to give much more of a show than he preferred. _Too late to change it now_.

Bared from the waist down, Crowley stepped up onto the platform of the machine. He forced himself to turn and give another cocky grin through the window at the audience of demons, jeering and howling at him. He flourished a little mock bow, winked, and then whirled around and bent over the thick padded bolster, giving his hips a tempting shake as he tried to get into a somewhat comfortable position.

Restraints clamped around his wrists and ankles almost at once. A thick strap slid across his lower back and fastened tightly. There was a whirring sound and the bolster moved slightly up and forward, raising his feet off the ground. He gave a few experimental wiggles, but he was pinned firmly in place, his bare bottom now perched high and vulnerable. A jolt of panic shot through him, and he had to remind himself it was just a spanking. _Just a spanking, just a spanking._ How bad could it really be?

The air shimmered directly in Crowley’s line of sight, revealing a video image of his arse. He squeezed his buttocks and the buttocks on the screen squeezed at the same time. _Great._ Apparently he was to view a livestream of his own arse tanning.

Heat crept up his neck as he stared at his own white, freckled bottom, knowing he was looking at the same view all those lecherous demons had. His vulva peeked from between his slender thighs, and he tried to squeeze them together. As if in direct response, the restraints on his ankles tightened, pulling his legs wide apart, and quashing any hopes he had at attempting modesty.

A loud buzzer sounded and Crowley winced. Dagon’s voice rang out as though through a loudspeaker. He couldn’t see her (she may not have even been present in the room), but it wasn’t like he had the option to look anywhere other than straight ahead at the video of his own upturned bare backside spread open, waiting to receive discipline from this ridiculous machine.

“Welcome to the punishment of the demon Crowley for failure to carry out an official assignment from the Dark Council. Let this be a lesson not only to him, but also to all of us that any demon shirking can expect to receive the same. Please, stay within the viewing area behind the glass for the duration of the punishment. We will begin with the paddle, followed by the cane, and then the groove strap. Could I have sixty seconds on the clock?”

Just above the image of Crowley’s bottom he saw a large red “60” appear in the air. His heart sped and a cold sweat broke out at his hairline. _What the fuck was a groove strap?_ His mind went straight to music, _bebop_ Aziraphale would call it, and dancing. But that certainly didn’t fit with the context of his current predicament.

And why sixty seconds? Was his punishment only going to be one minute? His nerves calmed down a bit at that thought. Damn, had Hell gone soft? He couldn’t help but grin.

There was a clinking sound, and on the screen he saw a mean looking wooden paddle, covered in several drill-holes, rise up behind his bottom, presumably held by some mechanical arm. His mouth went a bit dry at the sight. He watched as, quick as lightning, the paddle smacked against the bottom on the screen. _H__is_ bottom. It was easy to forget he was looking at his own naked rear end! A shockingly sharp sting exploded across his buttocks and he gave a very undignified yelp.

A second smack followed immediately after. He grit his teeth. Another after that. He breathed heavily through his nose. _Relax. It’s just a little pain. It’s not even that bad._ And it wasn’t. After the initial shock, he realized that the smacks themselves weren’t _that_ hard. However, they just kept coming. A machine wouldn’t tire or vary the time between strokes. No, it was just smack after relentless smack against his vulnerable bottom. Through watery eyes he watched his already reddening flesh flatten beneath the paddle and then jiggle as it came away.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he called out, hoping the tremble in his voice wasn’t obvious when he winced through yet another spank. “Tickles a bit, I’ll admit.”

He risked a glance at the clock. 

“45.” _What the bloody fuck, how had so little time passed?_ He hissed at yet another sharp swat. Every smack from the machine’s paddle was of the same intensity, yet the burning agony just kept getting worse. The spanking would continue until time was up. The paddle spanked him at a brisk pace, nearly one swat per second, so he could expect almost sixty paddle swats. Looking at the mottled, angry shade of red on his bottom and feeling the fiery heat building up, he realized that was actually quite a lot. And what was it Dagon had said about a _cane_? 

“23.” Crowley’s bottom was tomato red and in agony. He tried to twist his hips to avoid the paddle, anything to ease the inferno that was his backside. It was useless. The straps held him helplessly in place, and his reluctant buttocks remained regrettably accessible, exposed to take his spanking, no matter how much he tried to squirm away. There was no escape.

The paddled moved slightly up and down, ensuring his naughty bottom was well-spanked from the rounded cheeks down to the backs of his upper thighs. His freckles were standing out across the scalded skin, a spattering of dark little pinpricks amongst a sea of red.

“5.” He was beginning to bruise, dark red marks appearing where an extra sensitive portion of skin met the corner of the paddle. The undercurve of his buttocks was shiny with the hint of blisters from those damned evil holes that had really cut into him. Crowley was breathing heavily, on the verge of tears. He held them in stubbornly, clenching and unclenching his bottom in a fruitless attempt to quell the blazing fire that had been lit there.

“4 … 3 … 2 …. 1” 

The tension in his body released and he slumped over the bolster, panting. His face was red, sweaty, and he closed his eyes, squeezing in the tears that threatened to spill. His bottom throbbed, feeling engorged, hot and red.

Thunderous applause and foot stamping broke out behind him and his face flushed at the thought of a horde of demons delighting in his well-spanked naked bum.

Dagon’s voice rang out again, “Now we will move on to the cane. Twelve strokes.”

Crowley whipped his head up and he gave a little indignant cry. _Oh, fuck._ He’d somehow forgotten that the paddle was only the beginning, being thoroughly distracted by the blistering spanking he’d just endured. A red “12” appeared where the “60” had counted down and he whimpered.

He watched the screen helplessly, as a narrow cane was raised up behind his cherry red buttocks. _Nooooooo!_ he wanted to shout it out loud, but instead he took a deep breath. He could take it. It was _nothing._

It was _not_ nothing. Crowley absolutely howled as a narrow line of scorching fire erupted across his arsecheeks. The cane snapped down again and his toes curled. Two little parallel pink welts were raising where the cane had struck him.

“10” the number read. _Crack! Crack!_ He shouted, and, much to his despair, he _begged_, ignoring the hoots and hollers from the demon audience. No mercy was to be had, of course. The cane just kept whipping his tortured bottom. He couldn’t stop the tears, and he bit his lip, tasting a mix of salt and blood.

The machine had perfect precision. Finally, when there twelve perfectly parallel lines, drawn across his bottom and upper thighs, only a centimeter between each one, it stopped.

_Thank somebody._ His backside was ablaze. This was worse than the burning sulphur had been, he just knew it. There was something about the concentrated burning fire that had been applied only to his buttocks that magnified the suffering. He felt so very naughty and punished and humiliated.

And it wasn’t even over! Dagon was speaking again. 

“... and finally, the groove strap, please.” 

Crowley was about to find out exactly what that was, and oh, how he would wish he hadn’t. He saw on the screen that a very thin strip of leather had been dangled just above his bottom, perpendicular rather than parallel to his blistered and welted buttocks. He furrowed his brow, confused.

Just then, his ankle restraints tightened, pulling his legs even wider apart. Then, two sets of two parallel metal rods, curved slightly on each end came into view on the screen; a set from the left and a set from the right. Crowley watched in horror, his tearful eyes wide. Strapped down so tightly, he could do absolutely nothing but lie there as the four curved metal rods hooked into the tender, reddened flesh of his inner buttocks on each side. The rods pulled and stretched him wide open, and he felt a cool breeze against his anus. His puckered little arsehole and vulva were spread open in full view. The skin along the insides of his buttocks were white where the paddle and cane had not been able to reach, in stark contrast to the red well-spanked skin of his cheeks.

The crowd of demons roared, the shouting and whistling and cheering was deafening. _Just douse me with holy water now, please._ He was mortified. All his intimate parts open and displayed for all to see.

But that wasn’t the worst. The worst was when the narrow strip of leather drew back and then whipped down along the white flesh, leaving a stinging pink welt right alongside his anus. Crowley bucked as much as he was able in his restraints and screamed. The “groove strap” (aptly named, he now unfortunately realized) flicked down again, leaving a matching mark on the opposite side of his hole. The implement’s tip even stung along his outer labia, though he couldn’t be sure (and honestly didn’t quite care at the moment) whether that was intentional, or just errant mistakes.

This was beyond torture, and with no countdown, he couldn’t be sure how long it would go on. He sobbed, tears streaming down his cheeks, and snot dripping from his nostrils. He wailed, cries stuttered and desperate, as the mean, deceptively tiny strap made sure _every inch_ of his bottom was spanked - even right _on_ his tender little arsehole.

Finally, _finally_, it stopped, and Crowley was released from his restraints, stumbling and unsteady on his feet, his hands automatically flying to clutch his punished bottom. Oh, his poor, poor _bottom_! It was in quite a state; red, welted, bruised, and puffy, unbearably stinging and aching. He sniffled, face a tear-stained, snotty mess, as well. 

He somehow managed to hear Dagon’s instructions over the roar of the crowd, and quickly turned, his throbbing bottom immodestly presented to the viewing window, hands on his head to prevent any more rubbing at the sore flesh.

How would he ever face the other demons after this? They had seen _everything_ and had seen it all so well and thoroughly spanked as he was reduced to a sobbing, punished child. 

“That concludes today’s discipline,” Dagon said. “Please feel free to gaze upon this miscreant’s chastised flesh for your own edification, and remember the importance of obedience and accountability in your duties.”

One thing was for certain, he knew _exactly_ where he was headed once he was released from this humiliating time-out. Despite the state of his own bottom, unbeknownst to Hell, the issue of accountability had not yet been dealt with.

* * *

“Would you like me to heal it, dear?” Aziraphale asked, clicking his tongue at the state of Crowley’s backside.

The demon was lying facedown on the sofa, trousers down to his knees, groaning in agony.

“What d'you think?! Yesssssss! Of course, Angel!” 

“All right, then! No need to be so tetchy. Give me just a moment.”

Aziraphale placed his hand gently on the red hot skin and the raised welts, puffy skin, bruises, and redness all faded away until it was nothing but lily white and gloriously freckled again.

Crowley let out a relieved sigh. “Oh, yes, much better. Thank you.” He stood and pulled his bottoms up before plopping back down onto the sofa. “I really needed that, seeing as I’ll need to be sitting down on my bum right here for a good long while.”

Aziraphale tilted his head “Why is that, dear?”

Crowley gave him a toothy, predatory smirk. “Well, Angel, do you have any idea _why_ I was disciplined today?”

Aziraphale continued to look confused until his eyes widened and his mouth formed a little _oh._

“Oh, _fuck_! It was … oh, goodness. That little temptation down in … Oh, but then there was …. Oh, I just completely forgot! I meant to do it, I swear!” He was wringing his hands. “I’m so, so sorry, darling!”

Crowley grimaced and narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale, who appeared to be moving back slowly in an instinctive little retreat.

“Sorry doesn’t undue the pain and indignity I just suffered, Angel. But I’ve a good idea how we can take care of it. We have a debt to settle.”

Then Crowley miracled a paddle, the wood drilled through with half a dozen blister holes, and patted it threateningly against his palm. Aziraphale paled. 

“You shirked, Angel. The Agreement only works if you follow through, you naughty thing!”

“Oh, please, Crowley, I’m sorry, really!”

“Sorry isn’t enough,” Crowley said, shaking his head. “I’d say you’ve more than earned yourself a severely smacked bottom. Now, come here. Of course on the bare, get those down. Now, over my knee you go . . .”

* * *

An angel spent quite some time over a demon’s knee that evening, after which a very sorry angel with a very sore, well-paddled bottom stood pants-down in the corner of his bookshop. Incidentally, he did _not_ request his bottom healed after, but very happily and thoroughly made things up to the demon, settling the debt and then some.

**Author's Note:**

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